


Out of Water

by likeadeuce



Category: Angel: the Series, Marvel, X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-15
Updated: 2010-02-15
Packaged: 2017-10-07 07:20:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeadeuce/pseuds/likeadeuce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hank McCoy finds himself in an unusual karaoke bar, and strikes up an acquaintance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of Water

The first thing Lorne noticed about the newcomer was his waistcoat. It was a high-quality garment, obviously, tailored to the wearer's barrel-broad chest. The buttons shone in the reflected glow of the strobe light that the Kungai demon had chosen to accentuate his performance of "Up Where We Belong," and the whole ensemble looked so much like an illustration from a Victorian children's book that Lorne wouldn't have been wholly surprised if the stranger had reached a paw into his pocket, pulled out a watch, and declared himself late for a very important date.

The paws were the second thing Lorne noticed. Paws covered with blue fur, and a bemused look on the equally blue and furry, vaguely feline face. Those features would have been the first thing most people noticed. But Lorne wasn't most people, and this was Caritas, the only karaoke bar in greater L.A. that catered specifically to demons. Paws and blue fur didn't stand out among the clientele. But taking that kind of sartorial care before coming to said demon karaoke bar -- well, that was worth noticing.

The Kungai still had a verse and a reprise to go -- and frankly, his aura wasn't much to write home about, anyway -- so Lorne had time to sidle over to the waistcoat-wearer's table. Lorne smiled, tilted his head so that the solitary drinker got a good look at his ascot (it was a new acquisition, its rich vermillion a daring contrast to his emerald skin; Lorne was a little proud of it, and if anyone in this room was going to notice. . .)

The newcomer looked up at him, and Lorne pointed to the near-empty glass. "Can I get you another . . .?"

"White Russian," the stranger answered. He spoke in a rich baritone, with vibrations in his voice so much like music that Lorne was surprised for an instant when he couldn't read anything off of them. "I know it's a dreadful stereotype to play into, and it only encourages the felimorphophobic elements of our society, but --" His bright yellow eye twinkled as he said, "Lately I do find myself favoring milk-based drinks."

"Right, I'll just. . ." Lorne reached down to pick up the glass, smiling a careful smile that said he wasn't sure this guy (however sartorially gifted) was entirely right in the head, and that he was taking comfort in the knowledge that the sanctuary spell in Caritas prevented any demon violence. "So," he said conversationally. "What kind of demon are you?"

"It depends on which politicians you ask," the stranger said, with a deep belly laugh, then added. "I'm Hank McCoy. Almost entirely human."

"Not a demon?" Lorne regarded him cautiously. "Just came here to sing?"

"Singing, yes, but I'm more interested in . . ." Hank's face quirked in an expression Lorne was now reasonably sure was a smile. ". . .what comes after."

Lorne put a hand on one hip and gave Hank a stern look, to hide the increased speed of his hearts. "Well, milk isn't going to do anything for your vocal chords, Kitty Carlisle. Let me make you a Bay Breeze." And he did, mixing it himself for his own personal recipe. He returned to Hank's table and found a twenty-dollar bill, but no Hank. Lorne looked all around the bar, but even in a place as diverse as Caritas, there was no mistaking that the blue-haired mystery man had fled the coop.

Ah well. It happened. People of all kinds got cold feet about singing, and. . .what came after.

"He must have been shy," Lorne said out loud, to no one in particular. Then with a resigned sigh -- it had clearly been too good to be true -- he went to give some sage life advice to the horned slime-demon.

*

"I don't want you to think I'm shy," Hank told Lorne, when he showed up in the bar a few nights later. He tapped the table across from where he sat, signaling Lorne to pull up a chair.

"Not shy? Just rude, then." Lorne kept his nose in the air, not wanting the patron think it was that easy to play games with him. But he took the seat.

"I'm sorry if I seemed rude," Hank said, and he _sounded_ sincere. He spoke the words, didn't sing them, so Lorne's empathic power didn't do much good. But truthfully, after all this time, Lorne had learned to listen to his guests and hear what they were really saying. It wasn't that often that he truly needed the singing; it wasn't that common to learn anything really striking from someone's aura. Lorne had to say that it was the singing, that was part of the package. But most of the real insights came just from listening. Hank sounded sincere, and that counted for something. "I promise that what might inadvertently have appeared as brusqueness was only. . .indecision."

Indecision. Ahh. Lorne ran into this once in a while. Most notably, recently, with Angel, and his reluctance hadn't only been out of an unwillingness to confess his fondness for Manilow. Of course, Angel being Angel, there was so much impending disaster clogging up his aura, that Lorne hadn't even gotten to the part where Angel's enemies busted up Lorne's bar. Angel and anybody who claimed friendship with Angel had been told in no uncertain terms that they were _not_ welcome in Caritas until the security system was improved (and maybe not even then, unless they asked nicely; or unless Lorne needed Angel's help first, which was one of those things that was not entirely unlikely to occur, but _until then_. . .)

A horrible suspicion crept over Lorne. "Are you a friend of Angel's?"

This stopped Hank short. He peered at Lorne over his Bay Breeze. "Well of course. We're old school fellows."

Lorne blinked. "Wait, are you. . .?" He raised his hand to his face to make appropriate 'fang' signs. Hank replied by baring his own teeth --- which looked catlike, certainly, but not vampiric. "Sorry, that was rude. But I'll just come out with it. Did Angel send you here?"

Hank looked nonplussed. "I cannot deny, certainly that the funding for the research that allowed me to travel here was partly provided by my old friend. I can't claim he was directly involved, as he is very busy and. . .frankly, at the same time, not one to let his naturally carefree nature be caught up in the details of such endeavors."

"Angel's independently wealthy now?" Lorne echoed. "And. . ." he frowned ". . .carefree?" The two eyed each other suspiciously, they said together, at once:

"What's your guy look like?"

"Tall," Hank explained. "Blonde hair. Wings," he pantomimed the same structures growing out of his back.

"Tall -- ish," Lorne said. "Dark hair. Fangs."

"Ahh," they both said together. "Different guys." Then Lorne leaned in and asked, "What research? I know we're not exactly in Zagat's-LA, but how much funding-intensive research could it take to find a basement karaoke bar?"

Hank glanced around to make sure they weren't being observed, then leaned closer to Lorne. "To find a karaoke bar in another dimension?"

"Oh, no," Lorne groaned, lifting a hand to his face. "Don't be here from another dimension. Don't say you came through a portal. I _hate_ portals."

"But why? Why fear this remarkable discovery? The word 'portal,' after all, is only another word for 'door' and in the immortal words of Peggy Wood in 'The Sound of Music'. . ."

"Whenever God closes a door, somewhere he opens a window. I get it. Hate to tell you, whenever a portal opens in this place, God doesn't have much of anything to do with it." Lorne stepped back to study Hank, marveling at the odd glimmer in his eyes. "What brings you here, anyway? Why _here_? I know what brought me to this place from Pylea. We didn't have music in my home world. What could you be missing?"

"Mutants," Hank said simply.

Lorne blinked. "Huh?" He glanced around the bar. "Look I know my clientele might not exactly look normal -- though, frankly, I'm not sure a resident of the Grover-monster dimension can stand to throw stones -- but I won't have you coming in here implying my customers are mutated freaks."

Hank looked away, and Lorne knew he had said something wrong. "I'm sorry, I. . .I guess I don't understand. What's a mutant?"

"Me." Hank looked back at him. "I'm a mutant. So is my friend Angel. We're a species that's -- almost entirely human, by the standards of your world. But. Well. Where I come from it makes a difference. To me, and to a lot of my friends. There used to be a lot more of us and -- now there aren't."

"Your people are missing? And you think they might be here? Well I've seen some odd things during my time in LA, compadre, but. . . I think I would notice the transdimensional migration of an entire species across my bar." Lorne glanced around. "Assuming it happened on a slow night, anyway."

Hank smiled ruefully. "It's more complicated than that. My people aren't missing, but -- what made them unique, what made them mutants, that disappeared."

"And you think _that's_ here?"

"No, I. . .well, I think you might be able to help me in _my_ search."

"By listening to you sing, and. . . what comes after?"

"Right. The reputation of Caritas transcends your home dimension. Everyone knows this is a place you can go to sing and. . .afterwards. . ."

"Afterwards I read your aura. Your soul, your intentions. If you're very lucky, your future."

"Yes, and you see, it's that which troubles me."

"But not because you're shy."

"I'm not! I think you can see this by now."

"You are spilling your secret mission to a total stranger," Lorne conceded, then added hastily. "Not that it's a bad thing! I'm the Host! People trust me. It's my job."

"Yes," Hank nodded. "Yes, I'd like to trust you. Only, you see, there's just a small detail." He swallowed, then said quickly, "I've calculated the probability that your knowing my future and telling it to me could unravel the entire fabric of space-time."

"Oh." They sat quietly for a moment, then Lorne ventured, "And that probability is?"

"Not high," Hank admitted. "But. . .not zero."

"So. . ." Lorne understood. "You came here the other night, and you decided not to sing."

"It would have been selfish," Hank explained. "I couldn't take the risk of knowing the future, and having it affect my own behavior, like. . ."

"Like a prophecy." Lorne made a face. "Believe me, I know about those suckers. I have to tell you, Hank. I don't want to cut into my own business, but. . .between you and me? Reading auras, talking about the future. . .that's all good and well if you're a slime demon wondering if the female you met at last night's ritual sacrifice might be into you. But, it sounds like you're talking about the whole future of your species and if it was me -- well, if it was me, frankly, this conversation wouldn't be happening. Because between you and me and the six ounces of Malibu rum I've had tonight, I don't particularly care about my species. I came to this dimension to get away from my species. I _like_ being a fish out of water, but you. . .well, I don't have to read your aura to realize this means something to you."

Hank nodded.

Lorne stepped closer. "Well, what if -- what if I didn't tell you? Would that change the probability."

"You mean. . .if you read my aura and. . .keep what you learn to yourself?"

"Right. If I just give you general idea. Good news or bad news." He put his hand on Hank's shoulder. Hank looked up.

"That might do something," Hank said. "It might satisfy a certain desire without -- it's certainly an intriguing notion. Of course, I would have to be able to trust you. A great deal. Before I could sing for you. And you would have to be able to trust me. That I wouldn't go back on the deal, or try to make you tell."

"So, can I trust you?" Lorne swallowed. "I think that's why you came back here, isn't it? You've been looking in a lot of places for a trustworthy oracle, and -- the best you can do is the Host of a demon karaoke bar in a not-so-great part of LA? Really?"

A smile twitched at Hank's lip. "Well," he said. "Nowhere is it written that we need to do this in the bar."

*

It had been a while since Lorne brought anyone up to his place, and he didn't have everything laid out as immaculately as he might have if he had been able to plan for the occasion. But Hank was good-humored and, while Lorne wasn't entirely sure if this was really a trust exercise with the fate of a species at stake, or if he had just fallen for the weirdest (okay, second weirdest) pickup gambit of his life. Soon it didn't really matter because they were having a good time. And soon after that, they were having a really good time. Granted, they were different species, but Lorne's options for companionship since leaving his home dimension had consisted of nothing _but_ different species. Hank's fur was soft, and his hands were soft, and his laugh was gentle but enthusiastic -- making the parts of him that were suddenly hard that much more enjoyable.

"So," Lorne said, later, as they were lying together, on the round bed with its really quite tasteful satin chartreuse sheets (they looked very nice against Hank's blue fur). "Have you given any thought to what you want to sing?"

By way of an answer, Hank's deep-bellied voice rose up, _Strangers in the night. . .exchanging glances. . .wondering in the night. . .what were the chances._

Lorne's reactions were, in order: (1) Frank!! (2) That's one hell of a voice, (3) Uh-oh, and (4) Ohh. . .really. . .ohh.

Hank left off midverse. "Don't stop!" Lorne protested.

A frown crossed Hank's face. "What?" he asked. "Is it very bad news?"

"It's. . .well. . ." Lorne coughed. "It depends on how you look at it."

"How do I look at it?"

"You -- had a very nice time. And -- well -- you hope that we can do it again."

"I --" Hank blinked. "That's what my aura says?"

"Is that bad? That is -- do you think it's wrong?"

Hank let out a deep belly laugh, lay back on Lorne's bed, and put an arm around his shoulder. "No," he said, pulling Lorne close to him. "It's not bad. It's not wrong, and --" He kissed the top of Lorne's head, " -- I can't believe I could have come here looking for anything else."

They lay quietly for a while, then, before falling asleep together: two fish out of water, happy, for that moment, to have landed with each other.


End file.
